Close Shave
by DA4TheFunOfIt
Summary: Little America becomes attracted to the strange morning ritual that his big brother goes through each morning.  The young colony is so interested, that he decides he would like to give it a try, too!  Warning, one part gets a little bloody and upsetting.
1. Chapter 1

"Engwand?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you do dat?"

England had to finish working on his upper lip before he could answer. "Do what, America?" he asked; never taking his eyes off of the looking glass, as he carefully moved on to another part of his face.

"Dat," America repeated, pointing up to England's face innocently. "Why do you do dat every mornin'?"

England finally glanced down at America to see the curious child pointing at his face. "Oh, you are referring this?" he asked with a gesture to his razor. "I am only shaving." The nation turned back to the mirror to continue his work, but his young colony was not satisfied.

"Why do ya shave for?"

"It's 'Why do you shave?'" England corrected. "And I do it, because I must."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Well…" England tried not to lose focus on his delicate morning ritual, while at the same time, his mind worked to come up with a more informed answer that would satisfy his charge's abundant curiosity. "Because if I didn't…the hair on my face would grow out." The Brit didn't always multitask well.

"Why?"

England rolled his eyes. He was not in the mood for bout with the boy's never-ending questions this early in the morning. He leaned in for a closer inspection of his image in the mirror and tried to ignore America. If he was lucky, the child would notice something shiny in the room and forget all about this shaving thing.

"_Engwand_!"

But soon, the busy man felt a tugging on his pants and heard his little one's voice crying out with more force. The younger was apparently determined to get his big brother's attention.

"I _said _why come you gots hair gwowing on your face?"

"Why _do_ I _have_ hair growing on my face?" England tiredly corrected. It seemed like he was constantly correcting the boy's horrid English. Veteran parents that England knew _assured_ him that America would grow out of his little speech impediment on his own, but England just couldn't put up with that bad grammar! How was it possible for this little pup to be the genuine living symbol of his American colonies, if the lad couldn't even use correct English?

England was becoming weary of giving out the corrections, however. The pair had been living together for quite a few weeks now, yet it didn't seem to matter how often England corrected America's English. The instructions always seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Maybe he should just let it go. Maybe America was simply too young to understand the value of proper sentence structure. Perhaps the butchering of England's native language would be something the boy would grow out of as well.

"Yeah!" America affirmed below England; clearly not understanding that his guardian had been demonstrating the correct version of the question for his benefit. "Why come you gots hair gwowing on your face?" he repeated in the incorrect way once more.

England sighed. He wasn't going to get out of this easily, was he? He dipped his blade in the bowl of water on his dresser before continuing his task. "_Because_…" the nation spoke slowly, still trying to keep his concentration. "…that…that is simply the way man was made," he finally mumbled in exasperation, opting for the typical adult "That's-just-the-way-things-are" explanation.

Surprisingly, young America got quiet after that. The youngster carefully considered the answer for a few seconds before speaking up again. His tiny hands began to rub his soft cheeks, experimentally.

"But my face don't gots hair," he pointed out at last.

"Of course not," England confirmed as he stretched one cheek a bit, trying to get a closer shave. "That is what happens when one is an adult."

"Is dat _bad_?" Baby-blue eyes suddenly went wide in realization. If England, and every other adult man America knew, shaved his face, then the boy was starting to wonder if facial hair was some sort of awful epidemic that he would have to watch out for in the future. And on that note, did he also have to avoid being infected with caterpillar eyebrows? It was obviously too late for his caretaker's brows. England seemed to have already fallen prey to those thick clusters of hair—which America firmly believed were too strong to be shaved off. Poor England! Maybe America could find a cure for his unfortunate brother one day?

"Not exactly," England mumbled carefully in reply. It was an interesting challenge for him to talk and shave at the same time. "It's normal."

This new information greatly relieved the American boy, but also made the act of shaving more puzzling for him. "Den _why_ do ya hafta shave it off for?" the small colony persisted with ever-mounting confusion on the subject. It was a difficult thing for someone his age to understand. If face hair was "normal," then why go to the trouble of removing it every single morning?

"Oh for heaven's sake!" England muttered under his breath as he rinsed his razor in the bowl once more. Never mind how badly constructed that sentence had been, _why_ did America always get fixated on the _silliest _of things! Did all children do that? England truly loved America to death, but honestly, the child could be such a handful at times. There were numerous instances when England was at a loss of how to handle the little monkey. See, for all the expertise the ancient nation had collected over the years on various subjects, including battle strategies, weapons handling, sailing, magical arts, teas, embroidery, fine craftsmanships, and many lifetimes more of subjects, England was unfortunately no expert on children.

In fact, America was the first child with whom England had ever spent a serious amount of time. Of course, the boy wasn't a normal "child." Like England, America was a human-like representation of land. The young American had special abilities that even the _biggest_ novice on children would know that normal human youth just didn't possess (his buffalo-twirling strength for one). However, because of England's own lack of experience with not only children, but national personified children as well, the man was never fully certain that _anything_ about America was normal. For instance, sometimes England wondered if all children where as hyper and annoying as his new little grouping of colonies could be, or if America was just special in that regard, as well. Other times, England wondered if all personified children were as perceptive as America sometimes appeared to be, or if that was a human trait.

The blonde nation didn't have anything to compare America to. England was the baby of his own family, and he was an island nation, so he had never really had any fellow countries as playmates (except for France sometimes, but even that bothersome wanker had been older than England). The hard truth was that England had grown up very much alone. His childhood had been a harsh time period for anyone to grow up in, but England had had it more difficult than many children his age. Because of what he was, he had had special responsibilities to his countrymen, but as far as any reliable relationships went, England had never really had any as a child. He had unfortunately never been able to get along with his abusive older brothers. Always feeling dejected and pressured, England had made a habit of keeping to himself from a very young age. The closest things he had had to friends were his fairy companions, yet even they could be unpredictable beasts at times. When England took the time to consider it, he was certain that there had been a few times he had played with human children, but those instances had been so rare and so long ago, that the nation couldn't clearly recall much about them.

So that is why America was something totally foreign to England. America was both a human child and, in essence, a newborn national persona. Normal human children were mystery enough to England, but it's not like there were any "What to Expect from a Child-Nation" books that England could look up for a reference, so deciding how to raise America was sometimes tricky.

Besides, the hopeless Brit had _no CLUE_ what a normal childhood was supposed to be like. Most of what he was doing with America was guesswork. In the beginning, England had figured that acting as the lad's "big brother" would not be at all difficult. After all, England was a land representative himself, so he had concluded that he and America couldn't be too different from each other. And besides, he would be the one in charge! America might have been young, but the lad would certainly understand the basic protocol of subservient nations, right? Even England had learned those hard lessons very early in life. In the height of England's naiveté, the man had convinced himself that owning America would be similar to having a highly domesticated and well-behaved pet.

Needless to say, it hadn't taken long for _that_ illusion to shatter. Currently, after many weeks and much trial and error with his adorably troublesome colony, England was at long last starting to feel like he was getting the hang of this child-care thing. In the end, it wasn't so bad, but it was not what England had been expecting at all. But the biggest surprise that had come of it, the one thing that England had never, ever expected to happen, was that he had become so emotionally involved with his newly-acquired colony. In the beginning, the goal of obtaining America all for himself had spawned from England's desire for the rich profit that would come with a secure stronghold in The New World. He had never had any intention of _harming_ little America (as long as the child behaved), but in England's mind, America had been little more than a goldmine of natural resources, ripe for the taking. Of course England had always planned to take good care of America—or at least, of America the boy. Why would he abuse such a valuable possession? But in the empire's mind, the boundaries had been clear between America and he. America was his subordinate. He was America's sovereign. England would treat the boy well, and America would come to serve him well.

But once again, the strange child of the American lands had managed to burst all of England's expectations like they were nothing. And all America had done was _love_ the other. America, in all his innocence, had embraced England as a beloved big brother from the very start. America's honest adoration for England had totally blindsided the former pirate. England had tried to fight it at first, but in the end, it had been no use. Bit by bit, America had chipped away at all of England's defenses and had snuck his way into the proud kingdom's heart. Now, even though the "Master/Subject" boundaries between the two nationalities still technically existed, they were no longer of great importance to the Englishman. England saw America as the brother and companion that he had never had. America was England's little miracle. The old country, who had grown so accustomed to looking out for number one, had never _dreamt _that he would ever be truly loved by anyone else, nor that he would come to care for any one person more than he did for himself! Yet, here he was. England could hardly believe it, but he honestly loved America more than anything else in the world. Even so, just like with any little sibling, America still managed to get on his new big brother's nerves every now and then. Like now, for example:

"Because if I didn't shave every morning," England replied in an irritated tone, "I'd soon have a full-grown beard on my hands!" With that, England raised the blade once more, and began attending to his jawline. "Or rather…" he muttered in thought, afterwards, "on my face…I suppose…."

"But dat would be fun!" America suddenly exclaimed from below.

England glanced down at the smiling child.

"If I could gwow a beard, I'd wanna keep it, and make it weal wong!"

The older nation snickered, despite still being annoyed. He turned back to the mirror and began scraping his neck. "Beards are unseemly," he instructed. "You won't be growing one as long as I'm around."

"But why?" America sounded very disappointed. "I wike beards! Why do people shave if da hair is _s'possta_ be there? And even if ya shave it, it just gwows back again." The boy clearly did not understand the point of the ritual.

Well, England had had enough by this point. "It's…a matter of _principle_," he stated firmly, as he finished the up on section he was working on. Once that was done, he turned his full attention to his adopted brother. Seeing that a teaching moment was greatly wanting in this situation, England pointed the razor at America (not threateningly, but as if it were a school instructor's pointer), and launched into a full-blown, highly educated, lecture on the ways of the world. The man looked a little silly, speaking so importantly with shaving soap still dotting various parts of his face, but England wanted to get this conversation settled and out of the way. He wanted to clear up all confusion for his little brother so that that there would be no more irksome questions to worry about.

"See here lad, civilized society will not take one seriously as a gentleman if one has an unkempt appearance. Whiskers and beards give off such an impression. One must always strive to look one's best, and a clean-shaven countenance looks the best, by far. Shaving is much like any other type of grooming. In the same way that one combs the hair, or washes the hands every day, a proper gentlemen must also discipline himself to shave the face every morning in order to prevent his appearance from getting out of hand. That is why this custom is quite important. Do you understand?"

America cocked his head and stared with wide, blinking eyes at his parental figure. What was a kid supposed to say after a lengthy and wordy explanation like that? "Uh…okay," the mixed-up boy managed at last.

England had used a lot of big words that America didn't understand, but the bright-eyed tot decided it would be best not to question his guardian, further. That last statement had sounded more like an order than a question. England had apparently been expecting America to understand, and America didn't want to disappoint his big brother. The boy didn't want to be looked down on as a dummy who couldn't understand something that was (apparently) a very simple issue. If England said shaving was important, then it was important. Case closed…for now, anyway.

England smiled. "Good." His message had been received and understood by his young protégé. How pleasing. Maybe his teaching skills were improving. It was exasperating work at times, but when all was said and done, it felt good to impart some knowledge on the younger, more impressionable generation. Now England could return to his shave with no further interruptions.

Meanwhile, America was mulling over something new. From his spot on the floor, America had watched England as he started to shave again. England's morning routine was nothing new to the nipper. America was one of those early riser children, so he usually witnessed this shaving event every morning, but this was the first morning that America had started to ponder what it all meant. And after the conversation that had just occurred on the subject, America found that his interest had been all the more tweaked. Little eyes paid special attention to England as he brushed away the soap with his razor. The boy circled his guardian, as if trying to get better viewpoints on a fine art. England, unaware that he was being watched so closely, continued in his work like nothing was wrong. America finally had to cock his head again. He still didn't understand the logic behind shaving, but now that he really thought about it…the prospect _did_ have a strange attraction to it.

"Engwand?" America tugged on his elder's pant leg once more.

"Yes?"

"Dat wooks wike fun. Can I twy?" America held out his hands as he spoke, fully expecting to have the razor blade handed to him.

England started at the new question. He looked down at America and his upturned hands. "You want to shave?" he asked in a surprised voice.

"Uh-huh!" America stood up straight as he spoke. "I wanna be a…a _gen-twul-man_, too!"

England just couldn't help grinning at his sibling's too-cute desire, but he also had to shake his head at it. "Alfred, you are _far _too young for shaving," the older blonde chuckled out, while turning back to his looking glass.

"_Pwease_?" America pleaded, sweetly.

"You do not even have any hair on your face to shave," England brought up the key factor needed to justify a shave, which America was clearly missing.

America didn't care. "But I wanna shave, wike you do!" his little voice persisted. "You said it's _important_!"

"I did—for grown men," England replied more firmly. By now, he had finished his shave and was clearing his dresser top.

"But I'm big enough," America muttered, stubbornly. His tiny fists were clinching and his lips were sticking out in a pouty way. The boy was trying to look serious, but his willful, childish expression only made him look cuter.

England's emerald eyes only sparkled at the adorable tike, as he shook his head once more. "Not big enough this time, lad," he said with a pat on America's bed-head. "Sorry." With that, the nation cupped his hands in the basin of water and began rinsing his face.

America whined and pouted more. This was not fair! His brother was always telling him that he was a big boy, and that he should act like it. But then, England would turn around and say he was too little to do the things he _really _wanted to do. America was at a loss again. Why was it that he was "big enough" to pick up his own toys, learn manners, and not to throw tantrums, but not big enough to shave?

"But—"

"No buts, young man," England spoke through the handkerchief he was using to pat his face dry. "You may shave when you are older. I want no more complaints out of you. Understood?" England was avoiding America's eyes and doing his best to sound stern. It was not always easy for him to put his foot down with those cute, blue, puppy eyes pleading with him. Still, this was something England knew he couldn't give into. He might spoil America in other ways, but he would not allow his child to do something that was unsafe.

America looked down and whined like a dog that had just been kicked. England took a deep breath. He had to hold strong.

"You pwomise?" America asked; eyes filling up fast with crocodile tears.

England kneeled down and ruffled America's hair, trying to cheer the boy. "I promise," he assured as he did so. England prayed that was the end of it, but when America's head came up again, the man could see in his face that he hadn't quite given up, yet.

"But Engwand—"

"What's say we find you a sturdy breakfast, eh?" England cut in, quickly.

Just like magic, America's wet eyes cleared and the boy's face brightened. "Bweakfast?" he exclaimed. "Yay!" he cheered before jumping into England's open arms. "I'm hungwy!"

England let out a sigh of relief. "Do tell," he said with a happy sarcasm. Of course America was hungry. Was there ever a time he wasn't? Thank goodness for the lad's bottomless appetite! If there was one parenting-America-trick that England had learned, it was that the mention of food usually worked wonders on the colony's disposition. Most of the time, it even made America forget all about everything else.

England lifted America up, beaming in secret pride that the special trick had worked once again, and headed for the kitchen. "Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we?"

* * *

><p><em>A few days later….<em>

"Come on, Engwand! Wet's go outside!"

England stumbled along as the tiny Hercules pulled him away from his half-eaten early breakfast. The nation protested through a hard yawn. "Not this early in the morning, America."

It had been a late night. The time had finally come for England to tackle a workload of official business that he had been neglecting for some time. The poor representative had spent half the night on paperwork. He had been writing letters, mostly; letters that would be addressed to government officials all throughout the British colonies and in England. The colonists were unhappy again. It seemed those people lived to complain over every little thing. If only they knew how much unnecessary work it created for the blonde, English gentleman.

At least England could be glad of the fact that little America did not seem to be affected by the ill-will many colonists felt towards the crown. Usually, if a country's people were up in arms over any certain issue, the nation's representative might experience an attitude change that reflected the opinions of the populace. Yet, America was still just as attached to his big brother, England, as ever. As it was, the boy didn't even know about the developing problems in his colonies. That was strange, because even if a country's human personification, by some _miracle_, remained unaware of their people's strong feelings towards the government, they usually at least had a sense that something was wrong. And yet, America seemed to be going on about life as he always did. To the boy, all was well in the world and there was nothing but plenty of sunshine heading his way! England took America's unchanged feelings, and high spirits as a good sign. He hoped that they meant the complaints were nothing serious to worry about. Still, the empire didn't want to tell America about the recent troubles. There was no reason for the boy to be bothered with adult matters that would be solved any day now and would soon be forgotten.

"Den we can pway inside!" America proclaimed. "Come on!"

England lagged behind America on the way to the living room. That area was a favorite place of America's for indoor play. The room was large and open. Many neglected toys were strewn across its floor. England cursed to himself every time he saw those toys. He kept meaning to pick those up, but he never seemed to get around to it. It had been impossible the night before, because of all the urgent paperwork. But as if that undesirable business had not been bad enough, America had woken up in the middle that night, as well. Getting that boy to sleep at night was usually difficult, but it never mattered how late America fell asleep. That little rascal's body seemed to have an inner timer that went off and woke him in the middle of every single night. England had been forced to take a time out from his busy work to coax America back into slumber.

"We can pway piwates!" America was going on in excitement. He ran in circles around the living room, calling out suggestions for playtime. "Or Indians!" he offered. He seemed to be having a hard time making up his mind.

All this time, England was groaning. The idea of running around the room with America was making his fatigued muscles ache. He didn't even think that his mind had enough strength play along with imaginary games.

"America—"

"Or piwate-Indians!" America switched gears again and came up with a whole new game. "You can be a-captured by da piwate-Indians, and I can save ya!"

Oh good heavens, did he have too? After last night, all England wanted to do was take a holiday from grueling business and (as much as he loved America) the sounds of a small child vying for his attention. Getting back to the previous night, after America had been put to bed for a second time, England had returned to his work. Hours later, as soon as all the work was complete, the weary nation had fallen asleep at his desk. However, it seemed like no sooner had he fallen asleep, than he had found himself aroused by the sounds of a crying child.

It turned out, America had wet his bed again. England had been furious with himself! He had _known_ that he shouldn't have given into the boy's request for a drink of water, after America had woken up the first time. Well, he had paid dearly for it. America and his mattress had received a thorough cleaning after that. America always hated washing of any kind, so that had not been an enjoyable experience. Once the mattress had been rinsed and left outside to air out, England had finally been able to turn in with America in his own room. But by then, there had only been about an hour or two to go before morning. Energetic America, like always, had risen with the sun, tugging England out of bed along with him.

Now, as England watched his little bundle of joy bouncing around the living room, he repeated a solemn vow to himself that he had taken up not too long ago. Only a few short weeks after the day England took in America, he had made a vow that he would do his best to NEVER look down on the honest work of housewives again! In all of his long days on earth, England had fought countless trying battles. Many in which he didn't sleep for days at a time! The hardened Englishman had lived through hundreds of tribulations that had pushed his mind, body, and soul to their limits, but _none_ were so testing as parenthood! Attempting to run a household, while single-parenting a messy, hyper-active child like America, was truly a battlefield in its own rights!

England's original plan had not been to raise America himself. Originally, he had perceived that the best course of action would be to hire a few servants to deal with the primary care-taking of the child, once he gained full possession of him. England would have overseed the care of America by coming around to check on the lad whenever he had the inclination. Of course, all this had been dreamed up long before England had come to care for America the way he currently did, and it had all changed when England had won the rights to America from France.

Getting America had not been easy. England and France had once both owned territories which they believed belonged to the boy. England had his colonies and France had had his lands in the west. The rival Empires had been at odds over who had the true rights to the boy of America for a long time. They continued to argue over it all throughout the course of the The Seven Years War and the closely related French and Indian Wars. The dispute had seemed unsettleable. Each nation had possessed what they felt was a rightful claim to American lands, but which one should get the American _child_?

Wanting to end the long debate, but not wanting to share the lad, the competing nations had once decided on a whim to let the boy chose for himself who he wanted as his "big brother." By some unbelievable stroke of luck, America had chosen to stay with England! Still, France had not been ready to give up. He had continued to fight in the war with the hopes that he would eventually win, and be named the owner of America once and for all. Sadly for him, he had actually lost soon after that. However, England could not have been happier! Spain had received France's portion of land in the west, but had shown no interest in sharing the young American personification with England. The Spaniard adored children, but must have felt too burdened already with all of the other child lands he had to deal with. And so England had at long last been crowned the legitimate guardian of little America.

But getting back to the moment in which America had chosen to stay with England; by that certain moment in time, England had become too addicted to America's affections to even _consider_ giving him up to random servants! America had chosen to stay with _him_! He had won the boy fair and square! America was _his_, and nobody else's! It had been at that moment that England had made the decision that he would be the one to raise America. He would be the one to support the American youngster as his primary caretaker, at least until the boy was a little older. England had not wanted to leave the vulnerable little tot in the hands of just anybody! And besides, how hard could it be to bring up a child? If human women could do it, the Great British Empire could certainly do it, right?

What on earth had he been thinking?

England couldn't believe how easily he was finding himself succumbing to the weariness of everyday tasks and child-rearing! He must have been getting old. That was the only explanation for it. There were days when England couldn't wait until the boy was old enough to care for himself.

"Why don't you play with your toys?" England tried to suggest.

"Okay! Wanna pway wif my Noah's Ark?" America asked, not getting that England had meant that he should play _by himself_. "You can be Noah's wife! You do good girl voices!"

"Oh Alfred," England sighed and ran a tired hand through his own hair. "To be honest, I'm not sure I'm feeling up to it, lad."

"Or we could pway wif my spinnin' tops!" America went on, without listening.

"Alfred—"

"I know! Wet's pway wif my ball!" America picked up a small ball and threw it at England.

England was barely able to catch the ball before it flew past his head. "Not in the house!" he suddenly shouted. "How many times do I have to tell you, that?"

America put his hands behind his back and shrank his head into his shoulders. "Sowy," the little one apologized shyly as he shifted a foot around on the floor. "But what are we gonna pway?"

Here, England simply dropped the ball and spoke bluntly. "I am not going to play anything right now, America. I am rather tired. I think I need a small breather." And then, England turned and headed for a nearby chair.

But America did not like this idea. He dove for England and gripped onto the departing nation's shirt. "No!" he cried. "I wanna pway wif' you!"

"I play with you all the time."

"But we _always_ pway after bweakfast!"

"Exactly my point. I am always playing with you. I simply can't keep it up."

"But _Engwand_!"

"Alfred, surely you can entertain yourself for a short hour," England said as he sat in his favorite chair.

America's paled in disbelief. "An _OW-WAH_?" he exclaimed; the shock causing him to exaggerate his own impediment.

England merely made himself comfortable, and reached for a newspaper he had been wanting to read. America tried begging and pleading a little more, but England took it as an opportunity to practice his resolve as the official authority. He refused to move from the chair, and after getting tired of the begging, he warned America that the more he whined about it, the longer his "breather" was going to last. America finally gave up, but instead of playing on his own, he chose to pout on the floor. Every minute or so, the youngster would ask England if the time was up, yet?

"You could be having a grand time playing with your toys, instead of sulking," England finally commented.

"But _Engwand_!" America complained. "I'm _BOR-WARD_!" To a child, there is no worse fate than being "bored."

"I don't care," England stated firmly. He really was too tired to deal with America's petty complaints. "You're not getting any sympathy from me simply because you are choosing to have a horrid attitude. I'm not getting out of this chair for a good hour, and for your information, asking if the hour is up every few seconds is _not _going to make the time pass with any more speed. I don't want to hear that question again. The hour will be over when it's over. Rest assured, I will be certain to let you know when it is."

America responded with an exaggerated whine.

"Stop that," England ordered.

"But it's no fun pwaying by myself!"

"Would you prefer a strapping, instead?" England asked calmly. In reality, England had never laid a hand on the child, and doubted that a good reason to do so would ever come up. In England's eyes, America was a good boy, he was just…very lively. When it came down to it, England was hesitant to punish his sweet brother in that way. Since England knew what it was like to live with physically abusive older siblings, the last thing he wanted was for that cycle to be repeated with America. He feared that he would be too harsh if he ever tried to physically chastise the tiny colony. Still, he believed it was good to keep the threat there. That was usually all it took for America to behave.

As predicted, the affect was instant. America ceased all whining and became quiet. "No," he eventually grumbled in a defeated tone of voice.

"Then behave yourself."

America sniffed.

"Oh come, now!" England broke. "It's only for an hour," he encouraged. He tried speaking a little more positively. Maybe he could convince the American lad to have fun on his own. "Just look at all of your nice little toys! Why not pass the time with them?"

"But I wanna pway wif _you_!" America threw himself at England's feet in one last desperate plea.

England could feel himself starting to weaken at those pitiful dramatics. America was giving him that irresistible puppy-dog look, again. He had to close his eyes to the boy and remind himself that he was the one in charge, not a toddler. "I will be right here if you need me for any emergencies," the resolved country calmly promised, after a steadying breath. "You may play quietly in this room, or sit there and mope. It is your choice." And with that, England held up his newspaper shield once more. He was very tempted to offer some sort of reward to America. He would often promise his adopted sibling special treats in return for good behavior, but he knew that doing so now would only make more needless work for him later. The child couldn't have everything his way, and it was time that he learned that.

At the foot of the chair, it took a few more protests in the form of whiny noises for America to finally get that England was purposefully ignoring him. Angrily, the little colony sat on the floor with his back to the older land. His big brother could be so unfair sometimes!

America was planning to stay sitting there on the floor, set definitely in his unhappy mood during the full wait for the hour's end. Of course, it was not easy for the hyper and easily distracted child to stick to this commitment. Soon, he began shifting around on the floor. Then, he began to idly fiddle with a toy in front of him. And then two…then three. Before he realized it, America was playing cheerfully with his toys; his decision to sit still and sour-faced, long forgotten.

England fully relaxed once he noticed that America was playing. He happily settled back in his chair and read his newspaper. It felt so good to just sit and read for enjoyment. It seemed like forever since he had been able to do that. And there was something quite comforting in hearing the noises of his little brother's own enjoyment in the background, as the mini landmass conducted his imaginary play.

"Engwand, wook!" America did not completely keep his activities to himself, however. "I'm making da animals march!"

England peaked out from behind the newspaper to see that America had lined up his wooden Noah's Ark figures on the floor. "That's nice, lad," he quickly approved. He didn't mind if America spoke to him, just so long as he was not depending on him for his main entertainment.

Luckily, America was content in his own world, but he continued to give England little updates on his play time happenings. England acknowledged these small outbursts, but gradually paid less and less attention to his young ward. The empire's answers slowly became mechanical. He would speak to America without looking, and without even knowing what he was affirming.

"It's a pawade Engwand!" America might say. "Wook!"

"I see," England automatically respond. "That's very nice, America." And it went on like that.

"Engwand! Da wions are chasin' da cows! See?"

"Um-hm. So they are."

"Engwand! Da ewephants sat on da ducks and smushed dem!"

"Yes, yes, very nice."

Before long, England began to nod off. The newspaper seemed less interesting as his weariness overcame him. He battled to keep his blood-shot eyes open, but each blink was lasting longer and longer….

"Engwand?"

England made a groggy noise from behind the newspaper.

"Engwand?" America tried again. "My ark needs a wabbit. Can I go get my bunny from my woom? Engwand?"

"Hm?" England lightly exclaimed with a sleepy jolt. His head involuntarily jerked up. "Oh! Yes. Fine, America. That's fine."

"M'kay!" the child said as he ran out of the room. He had no idea that his half-asleep guardian did not quite realize what was going on. "Be wight back!" America called.

England only grunted and snuggled further into his seat.

* * *

><p>America looked all through his room, but his bunny was nowhere to be found. Just as he was starting to get upset, the lad remembered going to bed with England after he had wet the bed the night before. Maybe he had taken his bunny with him?<p>

The tiny colonist quickly ran to his guardian's room to check it out. Sure enough, there was his bunny sitting on the bed. It had been there the whole time. America smiled with relief and playfully scolded his pet for "hiding" in England's room. After pulling his stuffed rabbit off the bed by one of its long ears, America turned and clumsily skipped his way to the doorway. He had been trying to master skipping for the past few days. He wished that England would show him how it all worked again, but the older man refused to demonstrate the proper skipping method anymore. America didn't understand why, but England claimed the action made him look and feel silly. America, in his very young mind, thought that skipping seemed like a fun trick. He was personally amazed that England had the coordination to perform it so easily. But then, that was just another one of the many great things that America's cool big brother could do. America was sure that with practice he would be a master of skipping in no time, just like his big brother, England. The child wanted so much to be able to do everything England could do.

America stumbled a little on his long shirt a few times, but he soon made it to the doorway with little other trouble to speak of. The boy was feeling proud of himself for the progress he had made. He had not tripped and fallen down once that time! Ha! He was so going to be the king of skipping one day. He might even be better than England!

Satisfied with himself, the boy hugged his bunny close and started to walk back to the living room. England was probably wondering where he was. But something made America stop halfway down the hall. He looked back toward England's room. He recalled noticing something out of place in that room. The tiny start of an idea suddenly wormed its way into America's head. If what he had seen was real, then he might be dealing with a golden opportunity. His appetite for adventure and adult pursuits was now hungry for more than just skipping. He walked back to his brother's room and peered in. He was right! England had left his shaving things out!

England usually put up his shaving equipment every morning, but that morning he had neglected the chore. Maybe it had been because America had been whining about his empty tummy and England had been so tired from the previous night's escapades that he had decided to let the cleaning go for that moment. Neither one of the lands had thought much about it at the time. England had been focused on feeding his little brother, and America had practically forgotten all about his desires to shave.

However, now that America had noticed England's sharp razor, just sitting out in the open, unguarded, the desires for that forbidden object were swiftly resurfacing. That razor, in all its glory, was suddenly looking _very_ tempting to sparkling, little boy eyes, far away from any immediate adult supervision. America just gazed longingly at the tool on England's dresser. Should he? He really wanted to…but England had told him he couldn't...no wait. Didn't England say that he could shave when he was _older_? America looked down the hallway. No England…. Well, that was a few days ago, so _technically_ he was "older" now….

And that was a good enough loophole for America!

* * *

><p>It's my first fan fic of the new year! Yay! Sorry to those waiting for the next "Prussian Training" chapter, but it's been FAR too long since I've written a Brother EnglandChibi America thing! I missed it, and I think I needed a break from the other story, so I reached deep into the far corners of the documents folder of my computer and decided to finish this super old story. It's not the best, but it was one of the shortest story ideas that I had to work with. The next part will be up today. And fear not. The next thing I get out will most likely be "Prussian Training," now that I've got this done.

Oh, and yes, I've always loved America's little baby talk speech impediment from the 1st volume. I finally decided to experiment with writing it. I might go back to my other fics with toddler America one of these days and change those, too. I don't know. What do you think? But don't get on to me because not every single word with an r or l was switched to a w. The reason for that is because 1. I don't imagine America's speech impediment was extremely severe, just enough to sound cute. And 2. Trying to do that with ALL r and l words while making it look right and readable at the same time is just impossible!

**EDIT:** More on the baby-talk thing:

Thanks so much to the honest reviewer who was able to tell me they didn't care much for America's baby talk! I wasn't sure myself, how I felt about it. I had always liked the idea of America talking like that from the first time I read it in volume one (and I think I read somewhere that the Japanese version has America speaking baby-talk too), but never wrote it myself because it's difficult to write like that and make it readable, and I know some people find written out accents, speech impediments, and grammar mistakes unnecessary and distracting. I was just inspired by another fic I read a while back (which I thought was a pretty awesome story!) that used America's cutsie speech, to try and write America like that and see what people would say about it. The response has been largely positive on Deviant Art, but I'm sure it still annoyed some people, as it did for the reviewer here.

Well, I really wasn't sure what to do. So, I thought about it for a while, and after taking both sides, mine own leanings, and the advice from others into consideration, I decided to keep the speech impediment (at least for when America is a toddler. He will lose it pretty quickly as he get's older), just tone it down some. Sorry if that might disappoint some people, but so many people (including myself) liked the speech, that it seemed a shame to get rid of it. I will do my best to keep it toned down, though! I changed this fic to try toning down already. And I also changed this chapter a bit to show England trying to correct America's grammar. I do believe that he's a total grammar nazi. ^^ I hope truly hope that is satisfying enough to my readers! I really appreciate all of the constructive criticism that was given to me on this! Thank you.

**END EDIT**

The toys mentioned were a few examples of the kind of things colonial children played with.


	2. Chapter 2

The boy dashed into the room again. He couldn't wait to get started! This was going to be so awesome! He dropped his bunny and crawled up on the bed. He might not be as old as England had meant for him to be, but he was sure it would be ok once England saw what a good shaver he was! America was going to prove that he was big enough for this!

From the bed, America could easily climb on to the top of the dresser. Once he had reached the check point, the youngster surveyed his equipment. He saw a shave brush, a cake of soap, a bowl of water, and the jewel of the entire set: the coveted razor blade. America picked it up by the handle with care. He could have sworn that he felt a tingly sensation all over when he touched his big brother's shaver. He couldn't believe he was actually holding it! He felt more grown up, already.

As the excited colony examined the instrument in his hands, he noticed that it was still a little dirty. America took a big breath, puffed up his cheeks, and blew on the blade a few times to try and get the tiny bits of hair away. Only a few hair shavings departed. Most of them remained stuck to the metal. America huffed at the stubborn hairs and decided to wipe them off with his hand. The razor didn't look very shiny, anyway. It needed a good rubbing to restore its former glory. A small hand moved dangerously close to the razor's edge.

Just then, America heard a noise behind him. He jumped and retracted his hand just before it was about to rub against the dangerous utensil. The guilty squirt instinctively dropped the razor, but feared it was too late. It was all over. He just knew he had been caught red-handed.

* * *

><p>Downstairs, England had nodded off completely. Unfortunately, he had slipped right into his sweet nap without knowing it. And he was in no hurry to awake, for he was having a very convincing dream. It was one of those dreams which make the sleeper believe they are fully awake and carrying on with normal activities. In the dream, he was still reading the paper, and America was still playing sweetly in front of him. The blonde empire sighed blissfully in his slumber. It was a wonderful dream…but terribly inaccurate.<p>

* * *

><p>Back in England's room, the startled America had whipped his head around; afraid the noise had been England come to look for him. He looked up with the expression of a trapped and frightened animal. He was fully expecting to come face to face with his displeased older brother. To the colony's surprise, he saw…no one.<p>

America waited for a moment with his breath held in, just in case. When nothing happened, he let his breath go. That had been close! The noise must have been his imagination. Or maybe it had been the wind, or something. The house creaked sometimes. Whenever strange sounds had scared America late at night, England always told him that it was just the wind. The noise the young American had just heard was probably nothing to worry about, after all. Still, America figured he shouldn't waste anymore time. He had better do his grown-up task quickly, before England showed up to tell him that he couldn't!

America faced his small workspace again and grabbed up the razor. With luck, England would stay in the living room until his hour of peace was up. How much time had passed, anyway? America had no clue. Time always seemed to go so slowly to children, but for some reason, the little one was now having the strangest feeling that time was moving faster on him. For all he knew, the hour could be over in the next few seconds! Perhaps America was feeling more rushed by the time because he knew deep down inside that he shouldn't be doing what he was about to do.

But America ignored all inner warning signals. His mind had been made up. It would be alright. Things _always_ worked out for him! After the boy considered what he had to do, he ended up setting the razor down for the time being. First things first. He had to get that white stuff all over his face! He remembered that England did that by scrubbing the brush on the soap and then rubbing it on his face. Quickly, greedy hands snatched up the brush and the soap. The boy put the two together and scrubbed the brush on the soap, just like he had seen England do on so many mornings. However, after some good effort, America was a little surprised to find that it did not seem to be working. No foam was forming. So the child scrubbed harder. He tried scrubbing so hard, that the brush smushed against the cake. But regardless of how hard he scrubbed, nothing ever happened.

At last, America abruptly stopped what he was doing and tried to figure out the problem. He looked at the brush in one hand and the soap in his other. Oh! Maybe the soap needed to be wet? Happy at his clever analysis, America dipped the soap in the bowl of water. Now it would work for sure!

And it just might have, if the soap hadn't slipped out of America's hand. As soon as the boy pulled the wetted soap out of the bowl, it flew out of his grasp. America tried to catch it, but the pesky thing had the nerve to evade him and slip down behind the dresser! America gasped! He crawled over to the dresser's edge and peered into the dark space between the dresser and the wall. Great! Now how was he supposed to put the white stuff on his face? There was no way he could reach the bar of soap from where it was now!

America tried to think fast. He could always move the dresser. Then he would be able to get at the soap! Only problem was, England didn't like it when he moved furniture around. America had done that a few times in order to retrieve trapped toys, but that had always ended badly. See, for some reason, England liked to collect very fragile things. And for some reason, those very fragile things _always_ seemed to be placed precariously on the tops of the exact furnishings which America needed to transfer to a temporary location. And somehow, those very fragile things, always placed precariously on the tops of those certain furnishings, usually ended up smashed on the floor during the course of move. Thanks to a _few _honest accidents, it was now a house rule that America was not allowed to rearrange the furniture in any way and for any reason. The clumsy little boy had been instructed to call upon his brother's capable (and less destructive) aid if he ever needed anything to be rescued from under, or behind, a piece of furniture.

But _obviously_ America couldn't call England for help, in this case! Like the elder would help if America politely asked for him to get the soap he needed to secretly shave his face. Oh, wouldn't _that _go over well? No, America would have to think of some way to handle this, himself.

The only breakable things on the dresser were the matching bowl and pitcher. America thought about getting those off the dresser before trying to move it. But they were both filled with water. What if he spilled some of it? Or what if he accidentally dropped them while he was in the process of moving them to a saver spot? Even if the tot succeeded in moving the delicate items, moving the dresser itself might cause a lot of noise, especially if it tipped over. England would be in there in a heartbeat if he heard suspicious, loud crashings coming from his room. America pondered what to do over and over again. Suddenly, the colony heard another noise.

* * *

><p>Back in the living room, England was snoring.<p>

* * *

><p>America decided that he had wasted enough time! England could show up at any minute! If he was going to do this, he was just going to have to do it without the soap. It would only be for this one time. The lad was sure that he would be able to use the soap for the next shave. He would be able to shave as much as he wanted after England saw how grown-up he was!<p>

Quickly, America dipped his hands into the pitcher. He wanted to at least use some water on his face. He would have used the water in the bowl, but it looked murky. Plus it was filled with more hair stubs. America wanted to do this right and use clean water on his face, just like England always did. After patting his face with the leftover water from the pitcher, the boy picked up his brother's razor blade once more. He couldn't resist taking one last moment to admire the sharp instrument with excited and nervous child-like awe. He gulped with anticipation. No turning back now.

America stood up, ready to face the mirror and get to work!

Only…his face couldn't reach the mirror.

WHY? Why did he have to be so _short_? America stamped his foot in frustration!

CRACK!

America froze. Uh-oh. He looked down, very nervous about what he was going to see. Sure enough, there was a large crack under America's foot. The powerful child grimaced. England was going to be mad. He tried to cover the crack with the bowl and the pitcher, but it was no use. The crack stretched across the entire top of the dresser. There was no way England wouldn't see it! Well, at least the boy hadn't stomped with his full strength. The entire piece of furniture would have collapsed under him.

With a few hard shakes of his head, America decided to put the crack aside, for now. There just wasn't time for it. Maybe once he finished his shave, England would be too proud of him to notice the large crack? And so, America sat up. He got ready for his first shave. So what if he didn't have a mirror? He could shave without one. He knew what his face looked like, right? Why did he need a mirror to show him where to scrape the razor?

The young, American boy looked down at the blade for the final-_final_ time. This was it. He took a deep breath, prepared himself, raised the razor to his cheek, and…

Scrape, scrape, scrape…

The boy worked fast. The deed did not take long. After a few quick swipes with the cool razor, he decided he was done. He set his instrument down and contemplated what he had just done. That was actually kind of…easy! It had taken less time than he had imagined, but then, his head _was_ very small, and the blade _was_ very large. Of course it had not taken long to cover every inch of his lower face with the long blade. But as short as the shaving time span had been, America still felt awfully pleased with himself. He had just shaved all by himself for the first time ever! And it had not been hard at all! He didn't know why England had wanted him to wait until he was older. Shaving was a piece of cake! The boy just wished that he could look at himself in the mirror. He was sure he looked great! He probably looked so much more grown-up and gentlemanly.

Unable to keep the good news to himself any longer, America jumped off the dresser and bounced on the bed. He hastily scooted to the edge and slid off. He was out of the room in an instant, swiftly making his way to the living room. He couldn't wait to brag to England. Wouldn't his guardian be surprised! America was so filled with excitement, that he didn't notice the slight sting on his face as the rushing air made contact with his skin.

"Engwand! Engwand!" the tot called as he ran downstairs.

Down in the living room, England was finally awoken. The sound of America's voice and his loud scampering caused the sleeping blonde to bolt up in his chair. "Who? W-Wha?" he cried out in drowsy confusion. The paper he had been holding flew into his face just as his colony entered the room.

"Hey Engwand, guess what?" America asked as he stood at attention before his elder brother. "I been shavin' all by myself!"

The struggling empire in the chair tossed the paper from his face. England still appeared dazed because of his sudden arousal, but one look at America, and England was fully alert. America watched as England gaped at him for moment. The look on the older land's face was nothing short of pure shock and horror. England's expression silenced America. The boy took an unsure step back. He had thought that England would be proud of him, but the look on his guardian's face was scaring him. Why was he looking at him like that?

America didn't have time to think of anything to say. In the blink of an eye, England was out of his chair and upon America. The colony shrank back, but England snatched him up before he could escape. The oldest brother turned America around and pressed the child's face against his shoulder. America tried to speak, but his voice was muffled against England's shoulder. With a little bit of struggling, America pushed himself up.

"E-Engwand, what…."

That's when time slowed down for America. The boy couldn't finish his question. His eyes were on England's shoulder.

England's white shirt was _drenched_ in blood.

America sucked in his breath at the sight. Then he looked down at his own shirt. It was damp with the red substance, too! That's when America suddenly realized that his face was hurting a little. It also felt wet, but America had thought that was just from the water he had splashed on his face. A very bad inner feeling was overcoming the small boy. Hesitantly, America reached up a shaky hand to touch his face. When he pulled his tiny hand away and held it in front of him, it was crystal clear that the wet feeling on his face was _not_ water!

America went bug-eyed, just as England had done only moments before. Whimpers of fear began to escape from him. Just the sight of a _little_ blood on their person is typically enough to scare any small child to death, but America was staring at _so much_ of his own blood, and it was _everywhere_! It terrified the American more that he couldn't see his face. He was left to envision with his young, over-active imagination what his sliced face probably looked like!

As soon as America made a sound, he felt England push his head back on the shoulder. America shut his now tear-filled eyes and whined even more in his big brother's shoulder. He was crying more out of fear than pain. His whole body began to shake from the panic. This couldn't be happening! It had to be a bad, scary dream!

England rushed the distressed child into the kitchen. Most colonial farm estates didn't have a functional kitchen attached to the house, but since America loved food so much, England had found a residence with an inside kitchen, all so that his little colony would not have to wait any extra time to receive his meals. The nation had even ordered that an expensive well pump be installed in the kitchen, so that the room would have running water on demand. There would be no lugging around outdoor well water for his little brother. England had spared no expense for America's comfort. Unfortunately, the kitchen was about to bring the furthest thing from comfort to poor America.

England took the boy to the sink. He held America's head under the spicket, and without saying a word, began to pump furiously. America had had no chance to react as he was forced under the open pipe. He was almost too upset to really comprehend what was going on. Soon, water was hitting him in the face. America wiggled uncomfortably in England's arms when it happened. He cried out in more fear and pain. He could feel England tense a little, but continue to hold him in place. After some time, America's pain dulled. The cool water began to feel nice on his burning face. The liquid was soothing to the razor burn and was keeping the cruel air from hitting his open cuts.

Still, America cried. In the sink below him, all he could see was his blood mixing with the water. No matter how much water England pumped, the blood kept coming! The situation was just too much for the little one. He just wanted it to stop! He wanted this to all be a bad dream! He wanted to wake up and run to England's room, like he always did after a nightmare! He wanted to be fine. He wanted the pain in his face to go away. Most of all, he wanted all that scary blood to disappear! He never should have touched his brother's razor blade.

Just when America was getting a little used to the feel of the water on his face, England stopped pumping. America cringed at the change, but that only made his face hurt worse, especially with the absence of the water. He cried more pitifully in protest. Why had England stopped? America almost wished that he could have stayed under the water's flow forever. It didn't take long for America to learn why England had stopped, though. The nation had released the pump handle to pick up a bar of soap.

Before America knew what was happening, the soap was pressed to his face.

America _shrieked_!

Above him, England winced, but sadly continued to clean his little colony's mauled face.

* * *

><p>"Well…I must say…that was quite the adventure, wasn't it?"<p>

England wiped the gathering sweat from his face and looked down at his sniffling boy on the table. That had been the first thing the man had said since America had displayed his "shaved" face to him. In all honesty, the incident had been just as traumatizing for England as it had been for America. Probably more. One moment, England had been resting peacefully, believing that his younger brother was safe and sound, and the next moment, he had been awakened to see the dreadful sight of his precious baby brother standing before him with a bloody face! England had seen blood on children many, many times before. More than he'd like to remember. But today he had discovered that the sight of _his_ child bleeding profusely was one hundred times worse!

The good news was that America's condition was not as bad as it had first appeared. The mischievous tike hadn't skinned himself, only cut and nicked his face in a few places. Nevertheless, the clean razor cuts had drawn out a good amount of blood, and had made America appear more injured than he really was. England was sure he would never get that horrible image out of his mind for as long as he lived! The sight had been so awful, that the old nation had lost all ability to speak until just this moment. He had almost lost his ability to breath, as well.

England was just glad it was all over now and America's wounds were completely attended to. The boy's face had been cleaned, covered with salve, and wrapped in bandages. Looking at the whimpering thing now, England was afraid that he might have gone slightly overboard with the bandages. America's head looked like a mummy right out of Egypt. Only the lad's teary eyes and a little of his mouth could be seen. Those, and a few strands of dirty-blonde hair poking out between a few cracks. America's persistent cowlick on the top of his forehead happened to be one of the stray hairs. That cowlick was the only recognizable clue as to who was under the bandages.

England felt bad for America, but he couldn't help that he had panicked. Once he had seen his irreplaceable little brother in that state, he had acted mostly on instinct. His top priority had been to repair his poor, bleeding colony as quickly as possible. England had known that it was going to be hard on America, but there had not been any way around it. As expected, America had fought hard when that soap had stung him, but England had somehow found the might to hold the super boy down. England didn't know where his own burst of strength had come from. It must have been some sort of special parental adrenaline that surfaced whenever one's child is in mortal danger. The empire didn't even know he possessed that trait, but he must have developed the parental instincts somewhere along the line of caring for America. He noticed that his muscles were starting to throb from the strain of fighting against America. Also, his heart was only just now starting to calm down. England was surprised that he had not experienced a full-blown heart attack.

On the kitchen table, America didn't look up at England. He sniffed and hiccuped a bit before uttering words of his own. "I-It still hurts," he finally stuttered amidst tired breaths that threatened to turn into sobs. The shivering boy was one sorry sight. His tender, upset voice made it worse. His suffering form appeared to be the just about the most pitiful thing on earth. England had held his own up to this point, all things considered. Now, at the sound of America's tiny voice, the outwardly calm Brit felt his overworked heart effectively melt and turn into a sympathetic lump of mush.

"Come here," England gently pleaded as he scooped the boy up in his arms. America buried his covered face in the kingdom's shoulder and gave into his new set of tears. England did his best to hush the crying child. He rocked America back and forth and patted his back with empathy. Throughout it all, England was also desperately trying to stop his own tears from flowing. He wished to heaven that he could undo what had just happened! He _never_ should have fallen asleep on his charge! He should have known better than that by now. Wracked with guilt, England felt as if he should have just played with America like the boy had wanted. Then, this entire nightmare could have been prevented.

With all the plain mistakes England felt he made so often, the empire sometimes was afraid that he would never make a good "parent" to the boy in his arms. But he really was trying! He couldn't totally blame himself for this certain disaster, at any rate. America had known that he was not allowed to shave. The child had deliberately disobeyed him. In a way, the scamp had gotten what he deserved for his misdeed, but it all still seemed too cruel an experience for a small child to go through. England could only hope that America had learned his lesson and would stay away from anything remotely sharp for a good while. The Englishman didn't think he could take the sight of blood on his "baby" again. What was he going to do when America got his first nosebleed? Or his first skinned knee? The thought made him feel sick all over! England just knew he would be an absolute wreck if he had to go through something like this again, even if it might be on a smaller scale.

How did real parents do it? Particularly the colonial parents? How did they keep their nerves under control when their children were roaming about in such a savage, untamed land? _Anything_ could happen to them, for God's sake! Well…yes, when England was growing up, his lands had been rather wild, and he had faced up to it all alone…but that was very different, he was sure! He had been made for that harsh, early life! These soft colonials and his little brother simply strolled around in this new, unpredictable world as if they were on holiday! Didn't they realize how many dangers still lurked in America's vast wilderness? England had all but forgotten them, himself. With his colonies now firmly established, England had dismissed all risks that had first concerned him about settling in a new territory. Now, after learning what it was like to see one's own child badly hurt, England was starting to consider these dangers in a fresh light. Everything around England, everything inside and outside of the house, suddenly seemed like a deathtrap. And that started him thinking…what if something worse than a few razor cuts ever happened to America? What if the boy was ever _seriously _injured? The troubled nation just didn't know what he would do if anything ever happened to America! In his mind, England began to seriously wonder if there was any possible way that he could keep America shut up in some sort of safely padded environment until the lad was fully grown. Maybe even longer than that.

"Shh," England continued to shush his sobbing colony. "There, there. It's alright." This was said just as much for the Brit's own comfort as it was for the toddler's. "It should be all better by tomorrow."

That was true. At least America was a quick healer. Bumps and bruises had never lingered for long on the boy. Like England, America was almost immortal when it came to natural injuries. A mortal wound might be agonizingly painful, but a national personification couldn't technically die from it, and the stronger the nation, the faster the healing process was. The only thing that could truly harm beings like America and England were damages to their lands, people, governments, and economies. Since the cuts on America's face had not been caused by any national tragedy, and since America was the perfect example of a healthy colony, England could rest assured that the gashes would be healed very soon and would leave no scars.

America's sobs eventually died down to quiet weeping. The youngster didn't reply to England for quite a while. When he calmed down enough to speak, America raised his head a little. "You have bwud on your shirt," he stated. The voice sounded remorseful, as if America knew that he was responsible for ruining the nice shirt.

That made England's guilt over the situation worsen. The boy should not be feeling apologetic over soiling his shirt! There was no way that could have been helped. Besides, England didn't care about something as trivial that. He hadn't even noticed the blood on it. America was so much more important to him than an old shirt!

"Hush now," England whispered as he pushed the boy's head back down. "Never mind that. It's alright."

America sniffed and hugged England back. "I'm nevuh shavin' again!" he suddenly wailed.

England actually found himself chuckling, in spite of the situation. "That won't do at all," he lightly chided. "I can't have you sporting that beard you keep going on about."

"But shavin' _hurts_!" America sobbed.

"Only if one is careless," England said with some more pats and rubs to the boy's back. America only shook his head clumsily with his face in pain and the bandages wrapped all around him. He continued to cry into his brother.

"Don't fret over it," England soothingly instructed. "When the time comes, I'll show you the proper way to do it."

By this point, America seemed to be attempting to calm down again. "O-Okay," he quietly agreed.

England smiled to himself. "Stop talking now."

The Brit rocked America until he felt the child's body relaxing against his. As America's breathing became more even, the idea struck England that a nap might benefit the poor boy. Silently the nation toted his colony upstairs. England took America back inside his own room, since the boy's mattress had not been taken inside, yet. Normally, America didn't like naps, so England was a little worried about how he might react to being put down for one. He didn't really have anything to worry about, though. America was already asleep by the time they reached the bed. England carefully laid the little thing down. America opened his eyes briefly at the loss of contact with his brother, but as soon as he hit the bed, he rolled over and shut his eyes again without complaint. The child's recent little ordeal must have truly worn him out.

Since America was acting so beat, England felt that it would be safe to attempt to change him out of his blood-stained gown. As he departed for America's room to collect the boy's fresh long shirt, England noticed the trail of blood drops on the his floor. He sighed as he walked across his room. He would have to clean that later.

England soon returned to his bedside with America's clean shirt. The sleeping boy didn't stir as England ever so gently slipped the old shirt off of him and replaced it with the new one. Only just as England was about to leave, did America suddenly grab onto the elder's arm. The boy moaned in his sleep and begged England not to go. England gazed down at America. For a moment, he wasn't sure what to do. His arm was pretty well trapped. That's when his sharp eyes noticed the stuffed rabbit that had been discarded on the floor, in the boy's hasty pursuit to shave. The English nation picked up the neglected bunny and slowly switched his arm with it. America gripped at the animal tightly, then snuggled up to it and began sucking his thumb.

England stood and watched the sleeping child. With a sigh, he reached down and ran his hand through the boy's hair (or what little hair that was sticking out of his bandages). "What am I going to do with you?" he whispered wearily.

England was certain that this child was going to bring him to an early grave. But even though America was a handful, he was still England's adopted little brother. England wouldn't trade the boy for any more manageable load, no matter how much trouble the imp caused. The man still loved America more than anything else in the world, in spite of the fact that the boy had nearly killed him with worry just a short time ago. England just hoped that America would grow up well, despite all the mistakes he made as a guardian. The nation made up his mind right then that he wouldn't be so careless in the future. He would do his best to protect America from any form of pain these lands could cause. He would also have to keep a closer eye on his little monster, to make sure the boy didn't have another incident like today. With a little more effort, England was sure it would all turn out fine in the end. After all, who could be a better parent for a young colony than the British Empire?

* * *

><p>Finished! Whoo-hoo!<p>

So, this story is partly based on something that happened to a friend of mine when he was a kid. He basically shaved himself with water and his father's razor, but didn't even realize that he had cut himself badly, until he proudly told his dad that he had been shaving and his dad flipped out at all the blood. XD

A little history on colonial shaving:

The popular look in Colonial America was clean-shaven. Men could either shave themselves or go to a barber. Shaving brushes were invented in the 1750's. From what I can tell though, shaving soaps were not invented until the 1800's, so I assume that men used regular soap before that.

And by the way, what was mentioned about kitchens in Colonial America was true. Most houses in the country would have kitchens separate from the house because of how hot and smoky they could be. Houses in a crowded city would have to have kitchen, though. Water was usually taken from wells. About the water pump, I'm honestly not sure how common those were in colonial times. I tried researching it, but came up with little to no info on it. I do know that the "technology" for water pumps existed at the time. The best fire engines used hand pumps to pump water on fires. So to make the story work, I was generous and had England provide a house for his dear, little America with the height of modern technology inside: a hand water pump.

I think the any other history mentioned in this fic is self-explanatory and pretty well-known (at least by the well-seasoned Hetalia fan). But if anyone has any questions, they can ask me!


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